


Thirty-Love

by spilled_notes



Category: Holby City
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Tennis, Berena Appreciation Week, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 17:18:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11559801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes
Summary: Bernie and Serena are ex tennis pros whose much touted Wimbledon final never had the chance to be. Thirty years later they meet at the very same championship as coaches - and finally get to play each other at SW19.





	Thirty-Love

**Author's Note:**

> This can be blamed entirely on my having watched far too much tennis during Wimbledon. (Also, there is no such thing as mixed senior invitation doubles at Wimbledon, but I don't care.)

**July 1986, All England Tennis Club, Wimbledon**

Serena slumps onto the bench, head in her hands. She's just won her first Wimbledon, has spent goodness knows how long smiling for the cameras and the crowd, but in the privacy of the locker room she can't keep it up any longer. For months this had been touted as an epic battle – the all English final at the All England Club. It should have been her against the number one seed – Bernie Wolfe, the woman who won her first grand slam at seventeen and has been at the top of her game ever since. Serena's own journey has been slower, less meteoric, but this season everything has come together for her and she’s finally made it to number two, just Bernie ahead of her.

Last year they met in the quarter finals, just weeks after Serena won her first major title in Paris. Serena lost but in three sets – the only set Bernie dropped the whole championship – and Bernie went on to win for the third time in as many years.

‘You’ve got what it takes, Campbell,’ she whispered as they embraced over the net. ‘Can’t wait for next year.’

But a month ago Bernie was involved in a horrendous car accident that left her with a spinal injury that looks like it might end her career, and Serena feels like she's been cheated. Today should have been the match of their careers, should have been the chance for them finally to go head to head in a grand slam final, for her to finally prove herself against the golden girl. There's no doubt that the final was easier but after all the hype it feels like an anticlimax, and she's filled with anger on Bernie's behalf and disappointment that they've missed their chance.

She sends a huge bouquet and a box of chocolates to Bernie the next day, once she's slept off the hangover, writes in the accompanying card that she was sorely missed, that either victory or defeat facing her would have been far sweeter than this.

By the end of the summer Serena is number one in the world. It should feel good, she should be celebrating, but it’s something of a hollow victory. No one else has Bernie’s skill or consistency, it’s been far too easy to get here. She should have had to fight much harder for this.

 

**July 2016, All England Tennis Club, Wimbledon**

Serena's young protégé, Morven, makes it to the coveted middle weekend. Serena has been to countless tournaments as a coach since retiring at the end of a long, glittering career, but Wimbledon always feels special and she's delighted with her girl for doing so well, knows she’s got potential for the future.

Bernie's more experienced Ukrainian player Sofiya, in the opposite half of the draw, makes it to the quarter finals. Their paths have crossed here, as they frequently do at competitions, but despite this they've hardly spoken, hardly know each other. Serena still feels the loss of Bernie as an opponent sharply, even all these years later, still wonders how different things would have been, how much more she might have developed as a player with someone of Bernie's calibre on the other side of the net.

*

‘So the two of you meet in a Wimbledon final at last,’ Hanssen says to Serena as they wait to walk onto one of the outside courts for the final of the mixed senior invitation doubles.

‘Only thirty years too late,’ Serena says wryly.

Because she and the tall, quiet Swede are playing Bernie and fellow Brit Ric Griffin. When Serena saw the draw, studies their potential routes through the competition, she wondered if it had been fixed, if someone had seen both of their names and remembered the rivalry that never really was, that never had the chance to be.

When they start warming up on court, when she's hitting the ball back and forth with Bernie, Serena suddenly feels like she's twenty two again, wonders if Bernie is thinking of that lost final – and all the matches that would have followed it – too.

It's a close match but Serena has the advantage of having played with both Henrik and Ric during her career, back in the days when it was common to play in both singles and doubles at the same tournament. She falls back on a previous successful partnership and knowledge of Ric’s game and they just edge it in the third set – something of a miracle, actually, considering that Serena keeps finding herself distracted by Bernie's figure, just as toned and slender as ever, by the way Bernie's eyes linger on her between serves too. By the ache in her heart at just how competitive they are now, when it no longer really matters, the pang of what they missed thanks to the idiot who ran a red light and ended Bernie's professional career.

That evening the four of them go out for dinner, treat themselves to good food and plenty of wine. The conversation flows, but as the evening progresses and their wine consumption increases Serena finds herself spending less time talking and more time gazing at Bernie, two pairs of dark, glittering eyes catching across the table.

‘The two of you should play sometime,’ Ric suggests as they leave, as Bernie holds out Serena's jacket for her.

Serena sees something flit across Bernie's face and wonders if she's longed for this too, if their rivalry is one of the things she's mourned.

‘I'm game if you are,’ Bernie offers with a hesitant smile.

‘I'll book us a court at my club, if you like,’ Serena replies, smiling too, suddenly immensely grateful to Ric for providing her with the perfect excuse to see Bernie again.

‘Home advantage?’ Bernie teases.

‘Every little helps,’ Serena says with a wink. ‘Next week?’

‘You're on.’

*

They play and flirt, go for afternoon tea after Bernie beats her in straight sets and flirt, part with a tentative hug and Serena brushing a kiss to Bernie's cheek. And in the following months they meet at tournaments around the world, always have dinner or drinks, watch matches together when they can, pressed together from shoulder to knee as they sit or stand courtside. Serena finds herself wondering if she lost a friend as well as a rival, if they could have spent the last thirty years like this, fierce competitors when there was a net between them and the best of friends the rest of the time.

_Or perhaps something more,_ she thinks as she catches herself gazing at Bernie yet again, as she catches Bernie gazing at her from under that stupidly long fringe of hers, her eyes dark and warm and fond.

A couple of times at the US Open their girls train together, and once they sneak onto the practice court early to play a couple of games, easy rallies but competitive nonetheless. Morven joins them when it's four games apiece and they leave it there, Bernie teasingly reminding Serena of her win back home, telling her she's lucky not to be two-love down.

Serena scowls playfully and swats her arm as they make way for the girls, passes Bernie half of her banana and tries not to think too hard about the way her skin tingles when their fingers brush, or the way Bernie's eyes linger on hers, or the way Bernie's smile lasts long after she looks away.

*

Morven carries an injury with her to Linz, makes it through the qualifiers but no further. Serena can’t help but be disappointed – for Morven yes, but she’s young and Serena is sending her home to rest and recover, to spend some time with her family and her physio before they make any decisions about the remainder of the season. No, she’s mostly disappointed for herself, because Sofiya has been playing incredibly well recently and she’s been looking forward to the best part of a week in Bernie’s company, and now she has no reason to stay.

Her phone chimes when she’s almost finished packing ready to fly home in the morning: ‘Sorry about M. Fancy a drink if you don’t have plans?’

Serena smiles, instantly feeling lighter. ‘No plans,’ she replies. ‘And this would be a better offer even if I did.’

She hurriedly digs fresh clothes out of her case and changes, throws the last few bits in and heads to Bernie’s hotel, greets her in the bar with a hug and a kiss brushed to her cheek, almost forgets how to breathe when Bernie holds her tight, nose pressed into her hair.

They end up getting room service and spending the evening curled up together in front of trashy American TV, Serena’s head firmly resting on Bernie’s shoulder between sips of her wine.

‘Are you heading home with Morven or staying a little longer?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Whether anyone gives me a reason to stay.’ She raises her head and looks at Bernie, sees want and duty warring in her eyes.

‘I want you to,’ she says eventually. ‘But I’m not sure I’ll be able to give Sofiya what she needs if you do.’

Serena smiles at this, feels a blush colour her cheeks, hesitates a moment and then reaches for Bernie’s hand. ‘Well we can’t have that, not when she’s playing so well,’ she says, with a pang of disappointment.

‘Can I take you out, when I’m back in London?’

‘A date, Ms Wolfe?’ Serena teases.

‘A date,’ Bernie confirms, pressing their palms together.

‘I’d like that very much,’ Serena says softly, suddenly shy.

*

Bernie picks her up at two, refuses to tell Serena where they're going however much she flutters her eyelashes. She expects Bernie to drive in the direction of her tennis club and then take her out for an early dinner afterwards – she told her to wear tennis whites and bring something fancy to change into, after all. But Bernie heads in entirely the wrong direction, and it's quite some time before Serena realises what their destination must be: SW19, the most famous postcode in the tennis world.

‘Is this ok?’ Bernie asks once she's parked and can turn her full attention on Serena.

‘Definitely,’ Serena smiles.

But Bernie still looks nervous when they both get out and she offers Serena her arm.

They walk through the All England Club arm in arm, nodding and smiling at the few other members they pass, until Bernie stops and slips her arm free, digs in the pocket of her hoody and pulls out a sweat band.

‘I, uh, I've got a bit of a surprise,’ she says.

‘A bigger surprise than bringing me to Wimbledon for our first date?’ Serena teases.

‘Um, well,’ Bernie stammers.

‘Come on then,’ Serena says with a dramatic sigh. ‘It's a good job I trust you,’ she adds as Bernie carefully blindfolds her and then takes her arm. ‘I hope this isn't some plan to trip me up and give you an unfair advantage,’ she mutters, hand tight around Bernie's elbow.

‘Where would be the fun in that?’

Serena loses all sense of direction as Bernie leads her along and around, up stairs and down. She knows when they step onto the court though, can feel the grass under her feet and wonders what on earth is waiting for her when she opens her eyes.

She hears Bernie put down her bag, feels her slip her own from her shoulder, hears her take a deep breath, feels her fingers fumble with the knot at the back of her head.

Whatever Serena had expected, whatever she might have imagined, it certainly wasn't this. Her jaw drops and she looks around her in amazement before turning to Bernie, standing stock still apart from her fingers fidgeting with the white fabric that had covered her eyes.

‘How on earth did you pull this off?’ she finally manages.

Because they're stood in the middle of Centre Court, the roof closed against the threat of rain and the lights on against the November gloom, no one here but the two of them.

‘Sold my soul to the devil,’ Bernie jokes. And if she had it would have been worth it for the look on Serena's face.

‘I– I don't know what to say,’ Serena murmurs, spinning around slowly and taking it in.

‘I know how much you wish we'd got the chance to play here and– well, and I wish we had too,’ Bernie explains, anxious eyes still fixed on Serena.

And then suddenly Serena is in her arms, and Bernie hears her sniffing back tears. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

They hold each other tight for a moment, and then it's down to business: this might be a date but it’s also Centre Court at Wimbledon and they’ve had to wait thirty years for a chance to play here, and retirement has not made either of them less competitive.

It goes to three sets: Serena takes the first 6-4, Bernie the second 6-4. When the third goes to 6 all they agree on a tiebreak to decide things.

‘Otherwise we’ll be here all night,’ Serena says. ‘And I think you might have other plans.’

Bernie blushes at this, stares down at the grass between her feet and stammers something Serena can’t quite hear.

‘I meant dinner,’ she says fondly. ‘Although other things would be far from unwelcome.’

Bernie is the one who cracks, in the end – Serena breaks her serve just once, but that’s all she needs.

‘Ha,’ she crows. ‘Still fight in the old dog yet.’

Bernie doesn’t feel even a tiny pang of disappointment. In truth were it not for the fact that Serena would find her out in an instant she’d have let her win, equally as happy to see Serena triumphant in her victory as she would have been were in the other way around, smiling despite her loss because Serena is grinning at her from the other side of the court.

They embrace over the net, all hot and sweaty and breathless. When they draw apart Serena’s hand remains on Bernie’s arm, Bernie’s hand on Serena’s back.

‘Was that everything you hoped it would be?’ Bernie asks softly.

‘Almost,’ Serena replies.

Before Bernie can ask what was missing, what she can do to achieve perfection, Serena is kissing her, their rackets dropping forgotten to the grass as hands reach up to cup cheeks and slide into hair. They break apart, rest their foreheads together and smile. The roar of the blood in Serena’s ears is far louder than the roar of any crowd on this court, the smile on her face wider and brighter than the smile following any of her victories here.

‘You do realise you’re never going to be able to top this as a date, don’t you?’ she murmurs, and Bernie laughs.

‘Perhaps not,’ she replies, ghosting another kiss to Serena’s lips. ‘But that isn’t going to stop me trying.’


End file.
